I am the best like this
with nothing left
dried purple tulips
at each door handle.
With no audience
I face the blackness of each line
to learn what remains of reality.
The hope that all could be new
when everything is
At night I can only look at you
through a keyhole.
Sitting on one knee, on the floor,
I go on writing my thoughts
on pieces of cloth.
Locked in a motionless day
I keep busy
cutting my memory in perfect squares
to check how small
you became over the years.
I measure and trim
the infinite distance
between the rooms in my heart
with blunt scissors
we had more time or at least
we had more courage
But all we did in those days was sleep.
We were very good at keeping quiet
until the moment
silence, at last, settled in.
She keeps on looking behind
at the corn fields,
her blue dress follows her skin
as she walks ahead of me
into the wood.
The colour of her ink has now changed
everything reminds me of home.
When she leaves, the house leaves with her,
the noise of the smashed flower pots
wakes the neighbourhood up.
I am not awake:
dream her dreams,
jump out of bed at night to go to the bathroom
and yes! look at the box of chocolates,
look in her bag
for treats, for sweets,
for a word, for something
once the talking is done.
She reminds me to close the door
in the dark, tripping over her hollow slipper
yes! I suppose
the only surprise in solitude is death.
I do not know why the invisible angel came to me.
I did not change the colour of my hair
Nor my skin, the very flesh, the way I walked
I did not even speak to anyone
On my way to Antarctica.
But still, to my surprise, the angel stopped
And took a bite of me
Like he would bite a silent piece of fruit.
Since then, I keep looking at my imperfect face
And touch the scar.
I cannot breathe.
No blood, nothing but unblemished words
Fill my new white prison.
Painting: Manuell Manastireanu, ‘To Be’, acrylics on cardboard
Just before midnight, in the unpreventable moment
When my mother woke up to give birth to me
I jumped out and
Spilt all her blood on the floor.
That was my first angry poem
Which I screamed at the top of my voice
In the pale room.
I had good lungs. The doctor’s verdict.
But the still asleep city shhhed me and
Asked to turn the noise down.
Mother went back to bed.
The following day I learnt to
Write on white walls with red letters.